Until The Music's Gone
by RealForUs
Summary: They had taken a photograph of the whole Order earlier – bewitching the camera so that everyone could be in the shot – and she knew that she would be able to beg, borrow or steal a copy off someone at a later date, but she wanted to take pictures in her own mind too…


A/N: December 1979

 **Trigger Warning (?): Mentions of war and implied character death**

 **Until The Music's Gone**

 ** _'_** ** _Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire – as the war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone…gone.'_**

Minerva stood unnoticed (and eager to remain that way) in a corner of the festively – possibly slightly overenthusiastically (someone had unleashed Lily and Alice) – decorated room. She was still absently clutching a glass of firewhiskey – forced into her hand by someone who had had one too many, with slurred instructions to let her hair down – which she had no intention of drinking. She didn't feel jolly at all and was quite unable to partake in the increasingly wild merriment taking place on the spontaneously improvised dance floor. In fact, Minerva McGonagall felt very old and very tired. It had been a long and brutal year and in honesty she wanted nothing more than to replace the ludicrously huge measure in her hand with a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion and allow herself – just for a few hours - to sink into oblivion and forget all about the awful war that continued to rage just outside the safe glow of this party.

Maybe they were all overcompensating for the misery and hardship they had lived with for months, but the atmosphere was disproportionately – almost unreasonably – buoyant…exuberant. People seemed elated – if she hadn't known better she'd have thought that everyone else was not only drunk but high as well. However, that couldn't be the case because Hestia Jones kicked up the most enormous fuss every time someone tried to give her a potion for pain relief – insisting on the natural remedies she swore by – and therefore the fact that she was lying on the carpet staring into space and giggling with Emmeline Vance's head in her lap could not be explained away with recreational drug use. Nor did Dedalus Diggle – who appeared to be sitting on the shoulders of a remarkably unconcerned (or, more likely, just obliviously drunk) Hagrid – give her any clues about the cause of the jubilance, as he permanently acted as though he were a six year old with a sugar rush; he was one of those students that she had nurtured a soft spot for from a fond but uninvolved distance – eternally grateful that Pomona, and not her, was lumbered with him on a day-to-day basis. Even Alastor had let his guard down enough to get distinctly tipsy (he appeared to be dancing to music no one else could hear…although, to be fair, the enchanted [so it would play all night without needing to change the record] gramophone someone had unearthed implied that there probably was a tune – it was just indistinguishable over the drunken hilarity and spontaneous bursts of carols that she didn't recall going quite like that) in spite of the fact that he resolutely refused to drink from anything but his private hip-flask.

Perhaps it was merely that everyone was grateful to have survived another year…and had – at least for tonight – adopted the age-old, war weary motto that they had better make the most of it while they still could and live every day as though it were their last…although if Gideon Prewett drank another shot of dubious looking firewhiskey based punch that quickly, tonight really might be his last! Nonetheless, Minerva wouldn't have put it past Albus to have slipped something into the drinks and, eyeing her own suspiciously, hardened her resolve not to touch a drop. She wanted to remain in possession of all her wits, thank you very much, Christmas or not. Besides, she needed to be able to focus (and alcohol – spiked or otherwise – always made her feel woozy) – Minerva was making memories. Maybe it was sentimental and foolish - somewhat uncharacteristically so…apparently the war that had hardened the children was having the opposite effect on the battle worn Transfiguration teacher, merely making her go soft in the premature old age it had induced – and maybe it was bleakly pessimistic, but Professor McGonagall had lived through a lot and this was not her first war (although it was already, without doubt, her worst). She knew that there were no guarantees anyone in this room would see another Christmas – some of them might not even live to see the New Year… she had been forced to take a moment, after the meeting the previous day, to get it together – Albus had read out the lists for the mission on the 27th and, if it didn't sound fanciful, she would have sworn her heart had stopped. It sounded more like a Gryffindor reunion than a battle team… and she wanted to preserve tonight – however surreal it appeared to be getting from some quarters – in her memory forever.

They had taken a photograph of the whole Order earlier – bewitching the camera so that everyone could be in the shot – and she knew that she would be able to beg, borrow or steal a copy off someone at a later date, but she wanted to take pictures in her own mind too…not a posed for composition with everyone making an effort (with varying degrees of success) to look mature and impressive, but honest snapshots of the reality of these real people that she knew and loved and survived in constant, secret horror of losing.

…In the middle of the room – loud and brash as ever and blatantly making no effort to conceal whatever mischief they were concocting, were the Prewett twins, deep in a conversation (which involved much violent gesticulating and the smirks of doom she had come to recognise as one of the preliminary warning signs) with James and Peter. Minerva's finely honed (by long and bitter experience) mayhem aerial picked up an ominous signal of impending chaos – no good could come of that combination of pranksters. She took a moment to revel in the simple pleasure of worrying suspiciously about a practical joke being played on her – rather than worrying herself sick (on the rare occasion that she couldn't distract herself – forcing it from her mind was vital if she wanted to function) that said jokesters would meet a grisly end…

…Little Benjy Fenwick – apparently under the impression that he was still in the Gryffindor Common Room – was playing absent mindedly with a Fanged Frisbee (because it's not like being distracted while holding a toy with the potential to maim or seriously injure is a bad idea or anything, thought Minerva dryly) while shyly watching the older boys (and they were none of them more than boys really) with wide-eyed awe. His old Transfiguration teacher's heart constricted painfully. That innocent hero-worship was all very well when it came to imitating their 'cool' disdain for school rules and mimicking their knack for blowing things up at strategically inconvenient moments (such as the middle of exams!), but where would copying infinitely more skilled and notoriously reckless duellers, under the delusion that because they hadn't died yet they were immortal, get a fearless but incompetent little lion who took O.W.L.S. while barely having mastered the art of holding a wand – or a pen, for that matter? She had lost it and screamed at Albus for allowing him to join, visited by a sudden, vicious urge to shake the founder of the Order out of his calm composure and 'allowing them to choose for themselves' and 'he knows the risks' and 'unable to afford sentimentality', because how could a bloody 16 year old comprehend the reality of the bloody risks? And children didn't get to make life-or-death decisions for themselves – that was the point of bloody teachers – and how could the headmaster (if that's what he claimed his most important role was) possibly sanction letting someone who hadn't taken their NEWTs and wasn't even of age fight an adult war – never mind encourage it?! And his unfeeling words about how 'Voldemort was using children not yet of age too' – they were supposed to be fighting You-Know-Who not sinking to his bloody level …they had already failed those children he was using so horribly, so how was failing children still on the straight and narrow going to help?... and pitting children against children in a war not of their making…what was happening!? And she wouldn't allow him to use students actually under her protection as cannon fodder…; but in the end there was nothing she could do. She had no true authority – no power to prevent it - and she couldn't even revoke her support of Albus…it would make minimal difference and he was the leader of the light – if you weren't with him you were against him…so she could only watch, helplessly as little Benjy joined so proudly – stars in his eyes and that delusional conviction that he could help save everyone and build a better world – blissfully unaware that every day was more like a losing battle to live to fight the same battle the next day….

…Dorcas – in one of her numerous muggle t-shirts emblazoned with a bold feminist slogan, complete with CND necklace hanging on a string of beads – stood with her hands on her red harem pants (was that what she had said they were called? Minerva lost track of the wacky clothes her youngsters were wearing these days) clad hips, ranting earnestly to Marlene – her face alight with sincerity and conviction – her brown eyes on fire with gritty determination and emotion. Marlene was staring at the other girl's solemn, heart-shaped face but her dreamy green-grey eyes were glazed – suggesting to observant Minerva that she was in fact not paying any attention to the impassioned rant. Suddenly, while Dorcas was mid-word, Marlene leaned in and captured her parted lips in hers – hesitantly kissing her full on the mouth. There was a frozen second of shock and then Dorcas was kissing her back – with the sort of enthusiasm that ought to be reserved for private (and preferably locked) rooms. That was the thing about Dorcas, the rather startled Minerva ruminated reminiscently, she never did anything tentatively or by halves. Once she had a cause (or in this case, a romantic attachment) she poured her whole heart into it – unswervingly, fiercely, utterly loyal and devoted to what (and who) she cared about. The kiss deepened until they were wrapped together – lips locked and Marlene's wispy hair mingling with Dorcas' cropped locks. Minerva turned hastily away – delighted for them but feeling somewhat voyeuristic – her unnoticed gaze felt like an inexcusable intrusion on a stolen moment of bliss. Besides, she couldn't shake the feeling that such love was ill-advised in war time. To lay your heart bare when it must be so instantly vulnerable, risking it with every beat it beat for another…it was insane. But such was the way of the young. And this war was beginning to look as though it may go on indefinitely; Minerva supposed you couldn't let everything be governed by the terror of getting hurt …if you did, then You-Know-Who had won…

…Seeking a distraction from the heartfelt intimacy escalating by the window, Minerva seized upon the sight of Lily Potter screaming at her husband. Her face matched the hair that was whipping wildly as though caught in a microcosmic wind as she jabbed a shaking finger furiously at the chest of an abashed looking James. Minerva could not tell – without being obvious in her eavesdropping – exactly what had occurred, but the overladen Christmas tree that had stood majestically – if slightly wonkily and possibly held up by magic – against the far wall was now lying on its side, a vile shade of fuchsia pink that made Minerva's eyes actually water, and Peter was bleeding cheerfully from what looked like a rather severe head injury… Whatever the intention behind the ambitious prank, it had clearly gone astray – possibly because the group was conspicuously lacking in the usual logistics and logic Remus contributed and the input of the visionary Sirius… She caught snatches of "…utter idiots – what were you thinking…immature prats, isn't it bad enough that we live in constant fear of dying without you trying to accelerate the process…!" and other words to that effect. Minerva observed with mildly exasperated amusement that the Prewett twins, in the background, were attempting to subtly back away from Lily and her furious tirade – rather reminiscent of their harassed sister's rants. They were succeeding because, in her rage, the fiery Gryffindor had eyes (or rather an unyielding and merciless glare) only for her unfortunate husband – who, Minerva was impressed to see, looked suitably cowed. Clearly she should have sought tips from Lily on curbing his moronic behaviour years ago… Not for the first time, Minerva struggled to pinpoint what had happened - when it had changed – when it had gone from Lily-and-Severus to Lily and James. When had Lily stopped struggling to find relatively neutral places to meet up with the shy, awkward Slytherin who evidently adored her and instead started to haunt the same places as her new boyfriend's little group of troublemakers? She could never pin down a moment, only recall her shock when she had realised that it was no longer red head and dark head bent together over a book – curled up in some alcove – hands almost daring to brush, but red head and a different, messier dark head, pressed against each other in the throes of a rather public snog. She hadn't seen it coming. That much Minerva could say with absolute certainty – if you had told her a mere 4 years ago that James Potter would end up married to his crush she would have laughed in your face or advised that you get your head checked at St. Mungo's. He didn't seem anything like the type she would have expected Lily Evans to go for – he certainly bore no resemblance to her choice of friends. Some part of Minerva had always assumed that that 'friend' would become more than a friend (as he so obviously yearned to be); certainly Lily and Severus had seemed more probable to any bystander than Lily marrying Potter – who really could not have been further removed from Severus, in all aspects of life. And yet, maybe that was why she had gone for him – because he was so different to her first heartbreak (because she'd loved him – maybe not like he loved her- but she had. You didn't have to be her head of house to see that). Something had obviously gone wrong between Lily and Severus…and look where he had ended up…Minerva shook her head briskly. It didn't do to dwell on such things – not tonight. What was done was done. Maybe she could have, should have prevented the darkness consuming those children – and her mind went to her protégé: Bellatrix Black, as she had been then – Bellatrix whom she had duelled only yesterday, every unforgivable falling from her wand with that same ease with which she used to swear so creatively a mark of how Minerva had failed her… - but she hadn't. It was done. They were gone. She couldn't help them now. They had made their choice, and yet…Lily's voice reached the peak of its shrillness and Minerva winced – jerked from her miserable reverie. Lily was still yelling at James. Were they really that well-suited? They both had fire, certainly, and plenty of it, but wasn't that dangerous – was an inferno coming? - every conflict, every row, another bit of fuel…Well, it was none of her business anyway. They weren't her responsibility anymore. They were adults – a reality she still could not get her head around. She cast around for another snapshot, feeling once again as though she were being nosy…

…She couldn't take another picture in her mind. They were as conspicuous by their absence as their presence usually was. She cast around – baffled. She had definitely seen them earlier – drunk and a little wild – Sirius' hyperactive high spirits maybe edged with grief – Remus' participation maybe a little too understanding and supportive. Ah. There was Remus, slipping off into the shadows of the hallway – probably in search of Sirius himself. She felt almost relieved that she wouldn't bear witness to their encounter. Some things were too precious and fragile to be preserved – you only damaged them by trying. Some memories should belong to the participants alone. Besides, she wanted happy snapshots to treasure when things got too dark – whereas at the moment their every interaction was tinged with anguish and the brutal, biter mess of their lives. She wasn't sure she could bear to keep another etching on her mind (and heart) of watching Sirius trying hopelessly to forget…

…She zoomed out - wanting to make a permanent record of this night – the atmosphere, the emotion, the sight of her children forgetting the war for just a few hours and acting their infuriating ages. She felt terribly happy and desperately, helplessly sad all at once. It was like playing that muggle game Filius had shown her once – musical chairs, she thought it might have been called – where everything is beautiful while the music plays, but it has to stop… and it does… and then there is one less chair – one less person dancing on – just as there is one less place at the table in Order meetings almost every time (often more than one). She wishes she could really make the gramophone play forever – never let the record come to an end – but she can't and she's terrified of whose song will stop next – who won't be playing the game next Christmas…All she can do is live in the moment until the music is gone.

Oh sod it, she needs that bloody drink.


End file.
